


Sherlock 25 Days of Fic-Mas

by amylaura



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 25 Days of Fic-mas, Christmas Shopping, Fic Collection, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hint of backstory, M/M, Mention of Character Death, Pre-Slash, Tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:03:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amylaura/pseuds/amylaura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets for the holiday season.  Each chapter will be tagged individually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shopping for Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a Ficlet Challenge! List of prompts can be found here - http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/134308673979/25-days-of-fic-mas
> 
> Day 1: Shopping for gifts. 
> 
> Tags: General. Possible pre-pre-slash.

John Watson winced slightly as he slipped through the door of the used book store; the bell that announced his arrival was just the right pitch to aggravate his stress headache. Like most people, he wasn’t very fond of Christmas shopping; the shops were always too crowded, people tended to talk too loudly and it was just hard to keep some sense of perspective during the whole madness. 

Fortunately, the book store was decidedly quieter than the street outside and vacant except the bored university student behind the counter. John nodded at him and began to peruse the shelves. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but he was hopeful that he would find something for the last person on his list. Sherlock had always been hard to buy for – any attempts to pin him down for a gift always ended up either in stony silence or a lecture about the pointlessness of the whole holiday. 

That hadn’t stopped John from getting his friend a small present every year of course. Usually it was something related to the Work – new slides for the microscope, sketch books or something similar. But this Christmas, John was hoping to find something more meaningful to give him. The last couple of years had been really rough for the two of them, ever since that fateful day at Appledore. The stress of that confrontation and the apparent resurrection of James Moriarty shortly thereafter had combined to knock John for a loop. Then his world had completely shattered two months later when Mary and the baby had died due to complications from labour.

Through all of it, the months of bitter self-recrimination and deep depression, Sherlock had been a rock at his side. With tenderness and empathy that most would have a hard time believing, he had known just when to leave John alone and when to provide a distraction or suspect chase to keep John from spiraling too far out of control. John had been surprised at the time, but now he knew he had been selling his best friend short. Sherlock certainly still gave the impression that emotional entanglements were beneath him, but John knew it was all just an act. Sherlock cared so much about the few people in his life that the only way he could protect himself was to bury it under a veneer of contempt. 

But John was determined that this year, he was going to give Sherlock something more personal, something that showed just how much he appreciated everything Sherlock had done for him over the last few years. Unfortunately, every time he had tried to come up with an idea, he had drawn a blank. The only things that he was positive Sherlock would like weren’t nearly personal enough. And while he knew that Sherlock would absolutely love them, he refused to beg Molly for a collection of random body parts from the morgue. It took several days of stewing before the answer had finally dawned on him. A quick visit to the Diogenes Club had been necessary, but Mycroft had been surprisingly encouraging and John was sure he was headed in the right direction now.

Just as he was rounding a corner at the back of the shop, John’s breath caught in his throat when he saw a range of books on the very top shelf. It took him a minute to get it down, but sure enough, it’s the exact book that Mycroft described. John can barely believe his luck as he flipped through the old science textbook, remembering the strange look that had crept over Mycroft's face as he had told John about Sherlock's adventures with this book. It was fairly easy to imagine a young Sherlock sneaking this out of his brother’s school bag to read by flashlight under the covers. John’s smile grew wider as he tucked the book under his arm and headed towards the counter. 

A few minutes later, John is headed back into the chaos of the street outside the quiet shop, a wide smile on his face. His shopping bag was heavy – he had passed the True Crime shelf on his way to the till and hadn’t been able to pass up a compendium of serial killers of the eighteenth and nineteenth century. John hadn’t been able to pass that up. He was sure that Sherlock would have great fun pointing out everything they had gotten wrong. As he headed back towards the tube station, dodging chattering groups of people, John found himself anticipating the look on Sherlock's face when he finally unwrapped the books.


	2. Hot Cocoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Hot Cocoa
> 
> Tags: General, possibly pre-pre-Slash, Oh so much fluff, Hint of angsty backstory

What a frustrating day at the clinic, John thought as he dropped his bag next to the door. The first few days of cold weather always meant long days for him, as everyone rushed in to get flu jabs because they were convinced that their sniffling coworkers mean that they were quickly going to fall deathly ill. When you mixed those numbers in with the usual uptick in people getting sick as the weather gets colder, early December always meant long, stressful hours for John and his fellow doctors.

A glance around the living room brought another sigh of relief; Sherlock was still out. He had texted John this morning, shortly after he had arrived at work, to say that he was headed to the Yard to help Lestrade with a new case. John had been relieved; Sherlock had been without anything new to investigate for several days now, and John had started to see the signs of an approaching tantrum. Sherlock had done a few grisly experiments, but mostly he had spent the time off sprawled on the couch, growing steadily more irritable over the last twenty-four hours.

John kicked off his shoes, wondering if he should see if Sherlock needed him down at the Yard. But he shrugged the idea off for now. If his presence could be helpful, he was certain that Sherlock wouldn’t hesitate to demand it. So for now, he was determined to enjoy the quiet of the flat, have a cuppa or two and maybe even read his book in peace.

Turning into the kitchen, a smile broke over his face as he saw the small pile of packages on the table. Bless Mrs. Hudson. They had been growing dangerously low on tea, sugar and some other essential supplies. He had made an offhand comment about doing the shopping to Mrs. Hudson this morning on the way out the door. While she had made her usual “not your housekeeper’ response, she had obviously done some of the shopping for him. 

As John sorted through the packages and put everything away, he paused when he picked up one of the canisters. He smiled slightly as he read the label; hot cocoa wasn’t one of his usual drinks. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he drank it. There were vague memories of laughter with Harry and his mom, drinking cocoa in front of the Christmas tree. His smile faded; those happy memories had been overshadowed first by his father’s drinking and anger, then by his mother’s illness and Harry’s drinking

But John shoved those memories away. He had spent years trapped underneath them and he was determined that he wasn’t going to go back into that cycle. He left the cocoa on the table while he switched on the kettle and put the rest of the things away. To his relief, there were still some clean mugs on the shelf.

He was just mixing the powder in when he heard the door downstairs open and close. Had Sherlock solved the case already? John turned and propped his hip against the counter as he watched Sherlock enter the flat. He winced slightly at the thunderous expression on his flatmate’s face.

“How’d it go? Solve the case?”

“Mostly,” Sherlock replied tersely as he shed his coat and hung it up on the coat rack. ‘It had started promisingly enough, but it turns out, it was your typical custody dispute. The scene had been staged to suggest the girl had left with her boyfriend, but it was all a fake. Lestrade is going to arrest the father in the morning.”

John hummed. That explained the frustrated look then. Not only had the case turned out to be fairly standard, but it wasn’t completely resolved and Lestrade had obviously decided that he could wrap the case up without any more input from Sherlock. And John knew how much Sherlock hated situations like this; he might scoff and grumble about routine cases, but he took great pride in seeing any case he was involved with through to the finish. It was what landed him in all that trouble with The Woman, after all.

“What are you drinking?” Sherlock asked after a moment’s silence, moving into the kitchen and frowning down at the mug in John’s hand. “Hot cocoa? Wherever did you get that?”

“Mrs. Hudson gave us a package.” John said, pointing to the tin on the counter. “Want some?”

Sherlock just gave an indignant sniff and flounced off towards the living room. John finished his cocoa, smiling slightly at the warm feeling that had spread through his body as he drank the cocoa. A flick of the wrist was all it took to turn the kettle back on and after a moment’s pause, he grabbed another mug out of the cabinet.

By the time he walked back into the living room, Sherlock had put on the dressing gown he had abandoned on the back of his chair hours earlier and curled up into a ball on the couch with his back to the room. John shook his head in amusement at his flatmate’s dramatics. Really, Sherlock could be so predictable at times.

“Budge up,” John announced as he reached the couch, nudging Sherlock’s backside with his knee. Sherlock grumbled for a bit, but eventually he shifted enough to let John sit on the end of the couch.

“Here, try this,” he said, holding out the mug as he sat down on the worn leather. Sherlock glared over his shoulder, but after a second, he sat up and took the mug from John’s hand. John couldn’t quite hide his smile as he watched Sherlock take a grudging sip. Slowly, Sherlock grew less wound up and before long, he and John were sitting side by side, shoulders lightly touching, drinking their cocoa and staring at the empty fireplace and recovering from their stressful days.

It was over an hour before either man stirred himself enough to move off the couch.


	3. Winter Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Winter Wonderland
> 
> Tags: General; Pre-Slash; Moody Sherlock; Pinning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the tags to reflect the direction this collection seems to be going.

“Bloody Mycroft.”

His brother had promised him a simple trip – just a day or so in Oslo to investigate what was supposed to be as “matter of national importance.” Sherlock had accepted reluctantly; if there had been even one mildly interesting case of his own, he would have turned it down. But the teenage missing person case had been a blip on the radar. Apparently the criminals of London had abandoned interesting crimes for the holiday season. Petty larceny and boring domestic disputes had taken over the Yard’s docket.

So he had accepted, only to find the case incredibly dull. He had found the missing evidence within a couple of hours. An inept clerk had simply put the folder in a storage box that had been shipped here instead of the top secret storage facility somewhere in northern Scotland. It had been quite a simple matter to track down the clerk’s family and convince them to let him look through the box. Once he had found the folder, they had been more than willing to let him return it to its proper location. 

A series of angry text messages with his brother hadn’t relieved his anger at the whole situation. He had stormed back to the airport, hoping to catch the next flight back to London. But he had been thwarted there too. According to the airlines, a rare snowstorm had settled over southern England, grounding most air traffic and crippling the country. The news headlines declared it a Winter Wonderland, with pictures of London blanketed in several inches of snow.

So he was stuck here in Oslo, in a small hotel room the airline had put him up in. He supposed he should feel lucky. The storm had snarled most air traffic in Western Europe, stranding travellers all over the continent. The woman at the desk when he had checked in had said that he had the last available room in the hotel. He hadn’t bothered to comment on his good fortune. 

Being stuck here was agony. He had no interest in watching the small telly in the corner. He could barely tolerate John’s crappy programming on the best of days. But since it was December, the programming was more insipid than ever. A quick flick through the channels had shown nothing but holiday specials, all of which seemed to focus on the importance of finding “your perfect mate” before The Big Day arrived. He had been tempted to hurl the remote across the room, but had barely managed to refrain himself; it was only the image of John’s disapproving face that had stayed his arm.

Sherlock paused in his pacing, staring out the window at the light snow storm outside. No one here seemed particularly bothered by it. There were couples walking up and down the sidewalk and the streets were reasonably full of cars. He watched the traffic idly for a moment, hoping to let the scene soothe his temper. Sherlock sighed as he leaned against the window frame. If he was completely honest with himself, the complete fizzle of a case wasn’t the only reason he was irritated to be stuck here in Norway. 

He was slightly irritated to admit that it wasn’t necessarily London that was calling him back home. Instead of the call of the Work or the City, for the first time in his life, it was a person that dominated his quiet thoughts. His relationship with John Watson had never fit into any particular mould – they had almost always been closer than flatmates or mates, but there had never been romantic overtones. At least he hadn’t ever considered John in that manner. A couple of days ago, however, that door had been cracked open. 

It had been only three days ago that he and John had sat on the couch in front of the fire, drinking that hot cocoa. John had soothed the ragged edges of his temper, like he always did. But somehow in the darkened living room, cooling mugs of hot cocoa cradled in their hands, the normal companionable vibe that usually existed between them had been distinctly different. Sherlock had found himself mesmerized by John’s profile, the movement in his throat as he had swallowed and the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks. 

Sherlock had lain in his bed late that night, trying to talk himself back from that particular ledge. He had been in relationships, of course, but those had been more University experiments than attempts at emotional closeness. Could he open that door with John? Was that something John was even interested in? He had never shown any interest in men; the echoes of all those protestations of not being gay kept playing in his ears. 

Sherlock had been pacing around the living room the next day, desperate to make a decision about what to do about John, when a cough from the door had announced Mycroft’s arrival. Less than twelve hours later, Sherlock had been on a flight to Norway. And now here he was, stuck hundreds of miles away and still completely unsure what he should do.

Was he ready to try a romantic relationship for the first time in his life? And was it really worth risking everything he had built with John to try something new?


	4. Christmas Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Christmas Cards
> 
> Tags: General. Slight angst and feels.

Every December, Sherlock and John received many holiday cards. Most were from clients, grateful for the help the famous detective had provided them. The rest were from the handful of close friends like Angelo, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Without fail, John would open each card, exclaim over the sender and find a space for it on the mantle.

Like so many of the traditions of the season, Sherlock had always been dismissive of the habit of sending cards. In his experience, Christmas card lists were made up of three types of people: those you were so close with that they already knew every aspect of your daily life already, so the annual holiday newsletter was a waste of time, distant relatives you only associated with out of necessity and those people you wished to show off your annual list of embellished accomplishments. As a result, Sherlock had never bothered to shop for cards to send out. There were so few people he actually cared about and they were all in his life on a daily basis. 

But as he waited in the Oslo airport for his flight to be called, he noticed a small collection of Christmas cards in the corner of one of the shops. He was leaning against a pillar just outside the shop, waiting for his flight to be called. As he stood there watching the people move around the busy airport, one of the cards in the top row of the rack caught his eye.

A few minutes later, the man left the store and Sherlock found himself moving towards the card rack. The card felt a little slick in his hand; it took a minute to recognize that his palms were sweating. He frowned down at his hand for a minute, irritated by the moisture on his palm, before turning his gaze back to the card in his hand. 

As he stood staring at the image, Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. The front of the card was a simple illustration of a soldier standing with a suitcase in front of a closed, red door. His hand was raised, obviously ready to knock on the door. But what caught Sherlock’s attention wasn’t the uniform or the quality of the illustration. 

It was that from the back, the man was almost a carbon copy of John Watson, from the cut and color of his hair to the military bearing that Sherlock was oh so familiar with. He wasn’t taken to flights of fancy - but it was quite simple to see John coming home from war like this, if he hadn’t been so gravely injured. Sherlock just stood there, staring at the picture for several minutes. 

There was no witty caption or cheesy sentiment plastered on the front of the card and the inside had been left blank.turning back to the front, Sherlock stared, wondering what it would have been like to be on the other side of the door, waiting and hoping for a loved one to return home. He had never waited for anyone like that before; he’d always been the person to leave. 

A few minutes later, his plane was called and Sherlock moved to the gate. The card had been purchased and had been carefully tucked into an inside pocket of his carry-on. For the first time in his life, he wanted to give a Christmas card to someone. And not just to someone, but the most important person in his life.

Maybe, by the time Christmas finally rolled around, he would be able to find the words to tell John just how much he meant to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for the card is a combination of two of Norman Rockwell's illustrations about soldiers coming home from war: Welcome Back (http://images.art.com/images/products/regular/13214000/13214072.jpg) and The Homecoming (http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/wp-content/uploads/satevepost/1948_12_25.jpg).


	5. Ghost of Christmas Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Ghost of Christmas Past.
> 
> Tags: General. Remembered childhood injuries.

“That wasn’t what I said, Harry.”

John fought to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he listened to his sister rant and rave at him on the other end of the phone. It was always the same. The holidays and all it’s trappings always brought out the worst in his sister. She had always had trouble coping with her emotions, but this time of year it always seemed to be worse. Of course, it wasn’t just Harry who had trouble coping with the stress this time of year. But while John could view the general population’s struggle with stress and anxiety with a professional detachment, Harry’s exaggerated mood swings always hit very close to the bone.

Her emotional outbursts dated back to when they were kids. Every year, she had swung back and forth between extremely high excitement over what presents she thought she was going to get to irate outbursts when the few gifts their parents could afford didn’t match up to her grandiose expectations. 

The worst tantrum that John could remember was when he had been ten and Harry fourteen. Her wish list that year had been gigantic and completely out of their meagre budget. Their father had lost yet another job to his drinking and John had heard his mother worrying that they might not be able to afford presents at all. Sure enough. they had come down Christmas morning to one present apiece - a book for John and a small jewelry box for Harry. They had spent the afternoon at the AE while John had received stitches; Harry had thrown the box across the room almost straight at John’s head, breaking the small stained glass window in the top. Several shards had cut John across the face, dangerously close to his eye. He was fortunate that it hadn’t scarred badly.

After Harry had left home, her tantrums and outbursts had changed, but not necessarily for the better. She didn’t lash out physically any more, it was true, but her words grew sharper every year. She might not be complaining about how their parents didn’t give her a pony or a princess doll castle, but she never hesitated in laying into him every time something went wrong.

Sherlock always questioned why he even talked to his sister, since the phone calls always seemed to end in arguments. Johnw wasn’t entirely sure himself The closest explanation he had was that, despite it all, Harry was the only family he had left. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to cut the ties, even though it would mean fewer arguments.

The sound of the door behind him opening had John looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t help the smile that stretched over his face as he saw Sherlock standing there, looking slightly concerned. John shook his head and rolled his eyes as Harry ranted in his ear about her latests romantic entanglement. John paid even less attention than usual as he watched Sherlock move about the flat. 

John noticed that his tension levels had started to decrease the moment he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway. He’d been away for most of a week, on some top secret mission from Mycroft and John would admit to himself that he had missed Sherlock. His smile lessened somewhat as he realized that ‘missed’ wasn’t quite the right word. He hadn’t missed Sherlock as a friend or a flatmate - but as something more. He’d been trapped in the flat because of the snowstorm and he had found himself longing for Sherlock’s company. Baker Street, as homey and as comfortable as ever, hadn’t felt quite as much like home while Sherlock had been absent.

“... well if you aren’t going to listen, why do I bother?” the voice of his irate sister cut across his thoughts.

“I’m sorry Harry, but I’m going to have to go,” John invented as he saw Sherlock approach with two steaming mugs. Harry’s response was typically rude, but John hung up after a minute when Sherlock passed him one of the mugs. John glanced down at it absentmindedly as he watch Sherlock sink into the couch next to him out of the corner of his eye. A second later, he did a double-take as he realized that Sherlock hadn’t prepared tea.

Sherlock had made them hot cocoa.

John swallowed over the lump in his throat as he took a sip. He was touched, more than he could adequately say, that Sherlock had thought to make cocoa for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this from my tablet, so I apologize if there are more mistakes than usual.


	6. Day 6: Naughty and Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Naughty and Nice
> 
> Tags: General. Some mild flirting and crime scene violence.

Day 6 - Naughty and Nice

“Sherlock!” John hissed as he followed his flatmate down one of London’s dark alleys. “Lestrade told us to stay at the Yard! Remember? Said he’d arrest us both if we weren’t there or at Baker Street?” Sherlock paused ahead of him and shot an exasperated look over his shoulder back at John.

“Then you go back to the Yard. Briggs is poised to flee the country and there isn’t time to wait for the Yard to get off their arses.”

John rolled his eyes, not bothering to dignify Sherlock’s suggestion of leaving him to do this alone with a response. That wasn’t the way it worked, and both men knew it. So they continued to creep down the alleyway in one of London’s less savory neighborhoods. John wasn’t exactly sure where they were; he only knew that around every corner, the condition of the alleys got worse. Many of the windows had been boarded up and the smells from the numerous piles of rubbish made John wonder if there weren’t dead animals in them as he struggled to keep his lunch down.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped without much warning and John barely avoided plowing into the back of him. Sherlock peeked inside the window just in front of him and then beckoned John to do the same. John sighed before ducking around Sherlock and stationing himself on the other side of the window frame. He snuck a glimpse in through the pane and froze as he saw the man inside.

Sure enough, there stood Damian Briggs, a man they had been investigating for the murder of three elderly women during robberies in the last three months. John was sure it was him, even from the back. He could just see the edge of the distinctive scar that spread across the man’s right cheek. John made himself glance away from the man to take a quick survey of the layout of the flat. It was a tiny efficiency, which John thought might be a blessing because the loo and the closet were the only place to hide.

John glanced over at Sherlock to make a plan and had to swallow back a curse. Sherlock was no longer standing beside him. A quick glance around the alley showed him disappearing around a nearby corner. Muttering curses under his breath, John followed him, darting glances over his shoulder to make sure there wasn’t anyone watching them.

The door in from the street wasn’t locked and John dashed in behind Sherlock,making sure to ease the door closed behind him so it didn’t alert Briggs to their presence. They edged down the hallway, hearing various movements through the walls - not only from Briggs’ flat, but from some of the others as well. John held his breath as he watched Sherlock start to pick the lock on Brigg’s door. 

Seconds after he got the door open, Sherlock pushed it open and stormed inside. John bit back a few more of his favourite swear words as he rushed in after Sherlock. Briggs was standing in the far corner, a partially packed suitcase open on the bed behind him. Sherlock lunged at him and John’s heart fell into his stomach as light caught on the blade of knife. 

The next few minutes were a blur of fists, threats and dodging as John and Sherlock attempted to subdue Briggs. Fortunately, a loud bang sounded in the hallway before the fight could get out of hand. All three men looked over at the door, just in time to see the flimsy wood panel slam open on it’s hinges and several members of the Yard stormed in.

John and Sherlock were shoved away from Briggs by one of the officers and they stood against one of the walls watching the arrest go down. john pulled his scattered thoughts together enough to check the two of them over for injuries, but to his relief, there were only a few scrapes and bumps.

They looked up as two officers escorted Briggs out of the room in handcuffs, still muttering curses and glaring metaphorical daggers at the pair of them. Once the three of them were out of the room, John glanced around and felt himself tense up as he met Lestrade’s eyes. He hadn’t even noticed Greg arrive with the officers, but John shrugged, deciding when he had arrived wasn’t that important. 

“You two,” Greg barked, and John noticed all the remaining officers shooting them curious glances. “Come with me! NOW!” he bellowed when John and Sherlock hadn’t moved fast enough. Three minutes later, the three of them were standing a ways down the sidewalk and John was fighting the urge to squirm as Lestrade started yelling at them. 

“There are rules for a reason, Sherlock!” he began, obviously fighting the urge to try to shake some common sense into him. “It’s not only to make sure we capture the right person - it’s to keep US as safe as possible.”

John had to keep from looking over at Sherlock as the lecture continued; he knew if they made eye contact, he would start to giggle and that would just set Greg off more. And he didn’t really want to anger one of his best friends like that. So he just stood there, trying not to shift his weight back and forth like a guilty schoolboy and waited for Greg to start to lose steam. Finally, Greg pushed his hand through his hair and shot them both a dirty.

“Look, I know how you two are. But you have to be careful - not just for my sake, but for your own as well. If my boss finds out how often you go rogue, I might have to stop calling you in so often.” John couldn’t help it - he shot Sherlock a look here. As they met eyes, he felt a soft smile spreading across his face at the look of smug superiority that Sherlock was struggling to hide.

“You two are incorrigible,” Greg announced, poking his finger into Sherlock’s chest. John couldn’t help it as he saw the incredulous look that spread across Sherlock’s face as he looked down at that finger. Before he knew what was happening, he was doubled over laughing. 

“Get out of here,” Greg said, a certain fondness under his tone of mock-disgust. “I don’t want to see your faces for a few days.”

It took John a moment to catch his breath before he could follow Sherlock and he was still giggling a few minutes later as they scrambled into the back of a cab.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked, and John looked up, still softly chuckling.

“Love some. Angelos?” Sherlock hummed and nodded before giving the address to the cabbie. John’s giggles were the only sounds in the back of the cab as it worked its way through London’s traffic. As they watched the busy shoppers outside the window, John couldn't help notice that, once again, he and Sherlock were seated closer together than two friends normally would. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body through his own coat, pressed in a solid line from his shoulder to knee. John felt a soft smile spread across his face as he realized he liked this new closeness.

Angelo was happy to see them, as usual, and within minutes, they were seated at a cozy table in the corner, the familiar candle on the table and a bottle of wine at Sherlock’s elbow. Later on, John wouldn’t be able to remember what they talked about, just that the conversation flowed as freely as the wine and that the food was as delicious as always.

Maybe it was the post-case euphoria, or maybe it was the two bottles of wine, but at some point, John kicked Sherlock’s foot playfully under the table. Instead of looking affronted, however, John was amazed to see Sherlock’s smile soften just before he felt an answering nudge against his ankle. 

Neither man said anything about it, but they stayed that way for the rest of the evening, their ankles intertwined and their heads almost touching. And if either of them noticed the huge grin on Angelo’s face or the sudden flash of a camera phone, they ignored that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I've fallen way behind. I'm hoping this weekend to get caught up!


	7. Day 7: Nutcracker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Nutcracker.
> 
> Tags: General, fluff and longing.

Well that pub night had been a roaring success, John decided as he shut the door to Baker Street behind him. Greg, Mike Stamford and several of his old Army buddies had spent the evening at The Volunteer, talking about the Good Old Days, with much laughter and beer.

As he shrugged his coat off and started climbing the stairs, the sound of Sherlock’s violin made him pause as he tried to guess his flatmate’s mood. Sherlock hadn’t been thrilled when John had mentioned he was going out with the guys, but he hadn’t seemed as irritated by it as he had at other times during their long friendship. 

A minute later, John’s smile returned as he realized what Sherlock was playing. He might not be a musical expert, but even he could recognize some of the music from the Nutcracker. He hurried up the stairs, and quietly pushed the door open and his breath caught in his throat at the scene in front of him.

Sherlock stood in front of one of the windows, silhouetted against the street light, his arm a blur as the bow danced across the strings. John leaned against the door frame, his smile growing wider by the second as he stood there, letting the beauty of the music surround him. A slight cough drew his attention, and John cast a bashful smile at Mrs. Hudson where she sat in his chair. He shuffled his feet slightly, an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks to be caught staring like a love-struck schoolboy.

He glanced back towards the window at a minuscule pause in the music and made eye contact with Sherlock briefly. Sherlock smiled quickly before turning his focus back to the melody. 

“How long has he been playing?” John asked Mrs. Hudson quietly as he perched on the on the arm of his chair. 

“Oh not long, dear,” she answered with a warm smile. “I popped up with a cuppa and he mentioned that he was about to play, so I settled down to watch. I do love when he plays like this.” They shared a conspiratorial smile at the thought of his other type of ‘playing’ - the screeching, grating sounds that meant he was trapped inside his own head.

John grabbed a biscuit from the plate on the coffee table and sat still, perched on the arm of the chair, as they listened to Sherlock play. As the music continued, John found himself mesmerized by Sherlock’s movements as he played, the gentle sway of his body in time with the music. His throat grew dry as he watched the subtle twitch of Sherlock’s hips. His hands itched to slide along along that trim waist and feel the muscles move in time with his movements.

Maybe it would be possible soon. The other night at dinner, there had certainly been signs that maybe something was fundamentally changing in their relationship. John supposed he could do little else right now but sit here, enjoy the music and wait to see how it all played out.


	8. Day 8: Baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: Baking
> 
> Tags: General fluffiness

Sherlock scowled as he looked at the mess in front of him. Honestly, how hard could baking be? It was just chemistry after all. Combine the right amounts of each ingredient, bake for the prescribed time and poof, pull a full baking tray of biscuits out of the oven. He’s seen Mrs. Hudson bake dozens of times now. If she could manage it, then why couldn’t he?

The half raw, half burned blobs of dough he had just removed from the oven joined the last three batches in the bin. He wasn’t even sure why he was doing this to himself. It was obviously a complete waste of time. A flush brightened his cheeks as the answer to that question came to him.

The reason he was trying was John. He was so pleased to have his John back with him, the John he remembered from the days before The Fall, the one who giggled with him at crime scenes, was more than willing to chase criminals through half the alleys of London without complaint and then tell him how brilliant his deductions still were, that Sherlock found himself trying to express that gratitude in ways John might understand.

Last night, as he had played his violin, he had felt John’s gaze on him almost like a caress. A quick glance at his face had been enough to fluster Sherlock enough to make him momentarily forget the melody, which was something that had never happened before. The sight of John and Mrs. Hudson both sitting there, enjoying not only his music but his company was something Sherlock didn’t think he could ever forget.

So here he was, while John stuck at the clinic for yet another tedious shift with London’s prosaically sick, trying and failing to bake Christmas cookies. Failing, of course, was the key word. 

“Yoo hoo!” came the soft voice of Mrs. Hudson as she poked her way into the flat. “Sherlock, dear, what are you doing? Is something burning?” Sherlock quickly tried to hide the evidence, but naturally he wasn’t successful. He flinched slightly at the look of open amazement on his landlady’s face as she took in the disaster that their small kitchen had become. (At least, he thought with a slight sigh, she won’t be disgusted by this mess, unlike some of experiments she had walked in on in the past.) Sherlock felt his scowl deepen as she began to giggle. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she finally said, her cheeks flushed with her laughter and Sherlock shuffled slightly, embarrassment at his failure colouring his own cheeks. Her laughter stopped at his look of discomfort and she walked across the kitchen and placed a soothing hand on his cheek. “If you want, I can help you bake something for John.” 

She was a saint, Mrs. Hudson was. Sherlock had heard John call her that many times and it was certainly no less true from his perspective. Coming to her rescue in Florida was certainly one of the best things he had ever done in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's feelings on baking echo my own. For some reason, cookies are the one thing I cannot make.


	9. Day 9: Making A Christmas List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9: Making a Christmas List
> 
> Tags: General. References to death and previous angst.

She knew is it was a peculiar habit, but every year, Martha Hudson sat down and made a Christmas list. It wasn’t a list of gifts she wanted, or even the things she planned to give other people. No, her Christmas list was just the things she hoped to accomplish in the coming year, or her hopes for the important people in her life. She supposed some people would call them New Year’s Resolutions rather than Christmas wishes, but she always shrugged that off. What better time than Christmas to think about wishes and hopes for the future?

Every year, she pulled up the list from last year, just to see what had (or hadn’t) happened during the last twelve months. It was always difficult to see a name disappear from the list, and the last few years had seen quite a few people pass away. But after a few minutes, she gave herself a mental shake to clear the images of the faces no longer there. She did this to look forward to the next year, not remember the sad points of this year.

Twenty minutes later, she put the pen down and read through the list to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

_Mrs. Turner - Find a relief for her arthritis and new tenants to replace the married ones, who were moving to the country with their two adopted children._

_Detective Inspector Lestrade - A year with fewer homicides and to find the courage to finally ask Ms. Hooper out._

_Molly Hooper - Love (especially with that nice Detective Inspector - he’s been infatuated with you for years now)_

_Mycroft Holmes - A year without the need to interfere in his brother’s life. Isn’t running the free world enough?_

The last two names on the list made Martha smile. After so many years of faked deaths, arguments and heartache, it made her feel happy that her two boys were both here now. Poor John had been through so much heartache over the last two years, but if the signs were to be believed (or the more frequent sounds of laughter coming from upstairs), he was finally shedding some of the sadness that had weighed him down since the death of his wife and child. 

Maybe it had always been wishful thinking, but she had always thought there was something deeper than just friendship between the two men - despite John’s loud and frequent protests about it all. Last night, however, while she and John had been enjoying Sherlock’s impromptu Nutcracker concert, she had noticed the looks that had passed between the two men when they thought she hadn’t been looking. And Sherlock’s attempt at baking this afternoon was even easier to read.

She wasn’t even sure she needed to add this to the list, but Martha wasn’t one to tempt fate. So the last two names had been the simplest to add.

_Sherlock & John - Love. _


End file.
